At first, I felt like an invader. A trespasser in these spirits’ home.
The stillness swirled around me, as if it were trying to dizzy me away.
The tombstones didn’t want me there. I was abhorrent.

But then, I felt a kindling inside of me.
And as I sat in solitude under the withered old tree between the graves at 2am,
I couldn’t help but feel like the tombstones were my friends.
I couldn’t help but feel like a tombstone myself.

All I was was a symbol for what I had once been, a memory of who I once was.
What was inside of me, though, was just ashes of the past.
Sometimes people visited, dropping off a flower of hope or love or anguish,
But once that flower died, I was dead.

I started to cry.
I cried for these people, these new friends of mine.
I cried for their pasts.
I cried for my own.

And in that moment, I realized,
I was meant to be a tombstone.
People were meant to visit my grave. People were meant to cry for me.
I wasn’t meant to have a happy life. I was meant to have a memorable death.
I was meant to transform into a tombstone, for the world to visit and cry for.

And that was okay with me.

{alaska}